Wife, Woman, Mother, Unforgettable
by Self-san
Summary: Her name was Mary Winchester.


**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

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When Mary was 5 her mother had taken her hunting.

Thankfully, Deanna had decided they should stick to deer and small rodents at that time.

Mary was given a small kitchen knife and out they went, Samuel Campbell watching from the back door as they went into the woods behind the Campbell house.

Then, and for years after, Mary's mother taught her how to stalk and kill her prey without fear, taught her how to gut and skin and survive.

Her father taught her guns; taught her how to put together a car and kill werewolves from over 100ft away.

Mary grew up unlike the other kids her age, being home schooled until she was in high school.

Latin came before math and science and social studies. Obstacle courses with live traps were her gym class. Sewing together her father's wounds after a bad hunt was her home economics.

It was all she knew. Her parents were paranoid of other children and until Mary finally convinced them that to be a good hunter she needed to know how to interact with people she didn't have a clue that she was so different.

Since when had people had long hair like that? What if it got caught? They could die!

Who couldn't speak and read and write in Latin? Latin was a dead language? Since when?

God, Mary had lived in a totally different world her whole life, never knowing the truth and then to find it all out…it was a _revelation_.

She had so many _questions_.

Quickly though, she learned to keep her mouth shut and just listen to the other kids her age talk.

Then she went home, got her mother alone and asked her the questions.

Deanna answered them, giving Mary a pair of eyes that said she didn't like doing so.

Mary pointedly ignored them and leaned further in as she blindly cleaned her knifes and asked about _skirts_.

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The first time she came home wearing a thick mask of makeup her mother stole her away from her father's gaping mouth and shocked eyes and taught her about the whole, less-is-more thing when applying makeup.

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Mary's parents supported her the best they could, in their own way.

For Christmas, because the Campbell's didn't celebrate birthdays, Mary got a beautiful silver flask for holding holy water, a steak of yew for killing vampires, and an unabridged Latin bible.

Later as she sat in the cold cabin of her father's old truck, waiting for the demon to show itself, and even though she had never even _whispered_ of her want for such, her dad presented her with a pair of knee socks, knitted by his own hands.

She had cried and wore them everyday she could until a fall down a hill and a run in with a pixy had unraveled the light gray wool.

She had cried then too, but by then she had other pairs.

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The first time she laid eyes on John Winchester she almost drew on him; he looked that threatening.

Mary refused to believe that she was that tired; or that injured for that matter, to have almost drawn on a scarred military man just back from combat.

No, her daddy had trained her better than that.

_She_ was tough; _she_ was the one who didn't cry when falling off a cliff. _She_ was the one who her mama sighed and rolled her eyes at while fetching the ace bandages and who her father stared at incredulously when she finally rolled up her pants leg to patch up the 12inch-long gash decorating her shapely calf.

No, _she_ couldn't have been that scared of him. She just couldn't have. And besides…

The troll hadn't hit her _that_ hard.

Right?

She climbed the stairs silently, stepping over the creaks after she checked the salt lines and locks on the doors and windows of downstairs, heading resolutely to her room.

Her sawed-off fit perfectly in her hands and she set it on the floor next to her mattress; she had long since refused to sleep with such a big potential hiding space under her.

She attributed it to too many nightmares of hunts gone wrong.

Up in her small room she could really feel the weight of the Kansas summer.

The humidity was like a solid wall seeping in her open window. It nearly made the line of salt that decorated her sill coagulate and it made sweat pool under her small breasts and between her thighs.

No, John Winchester had just startled her. She told herself this again as she combed through her slowly frizzing hair.

Her waves had never liked the heat. Come to think of it, neither had she.

But really! One would think he'd have some better manners than to sneak in through the back door like that. She had been working at Charlie's Auto Shop since she was fifteen and she had never had someone startle her like that.

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Scowling down at her feet she carefully added another brush of nail polish before she capped the small bottle and tossed it onto the messy floor of her room. A deep purple that reminded her of a beetle's shell colored the dainty nails on her fingers and toes and she made a note to hide the bottle later in the false bottom of her dresser with her extra pistol and flask of holy water.

Then she tried to forget about the too tall, too thin, too startling form of John Winchester, town hero; man who looked too have seen too many demons.

Licking her lips she tasted the remains of the lipstick she had put on this morning and scowled harder.

Who was she trying to impress anyway, the dog? She shifted uneasily on her too pink, too small bedspread. Was it really that bad that she wanted to look like a girl sometimes?

Mary carefully touched her cropped blonde locks, mindful of her still slightly wet nails. Already she was getting used to the hotness in her room.

Still, at times like this she couldn't help but be so grateful of her short hair. With long flowing hair like the other girls in town then she would've already melted in the damn heat.

Besides, ever since she could remember her hair had been short, her legs incased in pants, and her hands full of one weapon or another.

It had never changed.

She closed her eyes and let herself flop back onto her old mattress, the metal springs whining at the abuse.

So her parents were gone on a hunt and she was alone. So she had decided to put on some makeup, fix her hair as best she could, do her nails. So what?

Determinedly she reminded herself that she had breasts and a vagina just like the rest of the female race and could damn well act like a girl _once_ in a while.

She stubbornly refused to think about the fact that the only time she felt comfortable doing so was when her parents were away.

Absently she blew on her nails and gently tested them. She thought she knew how she could relax some but her nails could get in the way if they weren't dry.

They were rock solid and she took a deep breath of hot air and closed her eyes to the bright overhead light as she slipped off her sweat-damp panties.

Kicking them off she slowly slid a finger inside herself and let herself drift away from the hot summer night where she was trapped in her house with painful thoughts as she worked, pushing thoughts of her parents, her life, and especially John Winchester from her mind.

Mary touched her breasts softly with a shaking hand as sweat pooled in the creases of her knees and her thighs trembled and she _came_ with nary a sound.

Limply laying on her bed, the thoughts were washed from her head with the warm rush between her legs.

Giving her nipple one last tug she sat up slowly as walked butt naked to the bathroom to wipe herself off.

And if the large, square, work hardened fingers of a phantom John Winchester had helped her along… well, no one had ever claimed that Mary Campbell couldn't keep a secret.

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She watched him. She just…couldn't help herself.

Even if it had been three months since she first almost killed the man he was still too tall, too skinny, and too aware.

He was quiet, silent as he moved. He fixed cars quickly and efficiently, never a wasted movement.

She admired that about him.

Clicking her nails against the desk she entered another account to the new computer the auto shop had gotten, her fingers slowly learning the keys.

Standing, she tugged her shirt down over her toned stomach and walked over to the corner where John Winchester was working on a black Impala, his long legs incased in a stained pair of blue jeans, his boots large and awkward looking sticking out from under the car.

She grinned to herself and tucked her slowly growing hair behind her ears she made sure to stomp the closer she got. She wanted to make sure he heard her.

Even with her loudness, he still jerked, cursing soundly as he hauled himself out from under the car.

"What?" he asked irritably, wiping at his face with his flannel sleeve.

He glared up at her, his dark eyes flashing. She could see him grinding his teeth and she watched, enthralled as his strong jaw tightened.

This was the first time she had ever seen such a fire under his skin and she smiled at him and crouched down to his level to look into his eyes while she spoke.

What spark! Thank God she had practiced in front of the mirror earlier to make sure it sounded okay.

"You're too thin, you've been working through your lunch breaks for the past two weeks, and you should come eat lunch with me," ended up coming out instead of, "Hello, welcome to Lawrence, I'm Mary, would you like to come eat with me?" *smiles-prettily-and-totally-non-threateningly*

_Well_, she thought to herself blankly as she stood, turning to walk away.

_That fucking __**sucked**__, way to go Campbell. _

And then she went to lunch, stopping at the door to holler back at him, "The offer's always open, Winchester!"

Because if nothing else maybe God would cut her a break, just this once.

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She didn't bother him after that, sticking to her work and talking to the other guys.

She was so sure that she had turned him off and she was absolutely positive that he would never give her another glance that she choked on her Pepsi when he walked into the dinner and sat across from her.

Suddenly she was glad that she had taken the bad seat; the one with the back to the door. His shoulders were still tense though she noticed.

Coughing she thumped her chest and blinked away her burning tears.

He watched her with sharp eyes, his jaw set, and dark stubble on his face accentuating his paleness.

His eyes bore into her as she straightened and kept eating, watching him as he watched her.

She watched his hands and found that they were just as large as she had imagined.

Years of living with her parents, people who barely talked except when teaching her, won out and he spoke first, musing his hair with a hand.

"Can I at least get your _name_?"

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They met for lunch everyday after that.

Soon enough he even started eating with her too.

She laughed when she was with him, talking about anything and everything; even the war.

It was like she was a real girl. Even if it was embarrassing when he laughed at her trying to twirl her hair.

But what the hell; she laughed at that too.

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She wondered how the hell she could feel the way she did about John Winchester.

It was like he took up her whole world!

And cleaning her knife with a slow hand, she thought about how her chest had been filled with such heat, such warmth when she saw him in a new pair of blue jeans, finally gaining enough weight to fill out his boxy frame just right.

Taking a deep breath she absently balanced the knife she had been cleaning on its point with her first finger.

Tossing it up into the air she caught it by the hilt with ease and threw it across her room, straight into the bulls eye painted on the back of her door.

She frowned when she saw that it was just a hair away from being straight in the middle but decided she didn't really care right then; she had a dinner date with a Winchester.

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"I want to meet your parents," he said after three months of seeing her for lunch. There were a few dinners thrown it too; along with multiple talks at the shop.

She froze, her eyes wide and her smile vanishing.

Her ribs cringed as her heart sped up, pounding against the bruised bones. She had just gotten back from kicking an annoying, creepy, yellow-eyed, motherfucking, demon's ass, _lord_, why did this have to happen **now**?

She swallowed dryly and thought about how to tell him that her parents wouldn't appreciate him, wouldn't like him, and might even _kill_ him if they didn't like the way he looked.

Did he know that the Campbell owned most of the woods surrounding Lawrence?

She fought the urge to laugh hysterically and had to watch as his face went blank; bad sign.

"Are you sure?" she asked him solemnly, locking her eyes to his.

He nodded slowly, seeming to understand the seriousness of her question.

"I'll…tell them," Mary said, closing her eyes and wondering how she'd tell mama and daddy that she really liked this guy, that she was starting to think about leaving _hunting _the only thing she'd ever _known_…for _him_.

And when John gave her a smile that lit up her world she told herself that it wouldn't be too bad.

Maybe they'd even like him…

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Or maybe not.

She fought the urge to cringe.

Oh please, oh please no.

She tightened her hands on the tray with her homemade lemonade and four glasses, looking at her front porch through the old screen door.

John was supposed to be there any second and there her parents sat.

Closing her eyes she tried to block out the sight of her father slowly cleaning his shotgun and her mother methodically sharpening her machete.

There faces were stony. Cold.

They were going to eat her tough-as-nails ex-marine _alive_.

Hearing the sound of John's Impala driving up was enough to make her want to cry and she knew if the plan was going to work she had to do it now.

Not bothering to fight the coming, defeated tears, she gently opened the screen, setting the tray down on the table between her parents' chairs.

Looking at them she let the desperation shine through her eyes even as she kept her back to the Impala and blocked John's view of her parents.

"_Please_," she whispered as she heard John get out of his car.

Her voice broke and a tear ran down her cheek.

She watched how her father's face softened almost unnoticeably and knew that it was the best she could do.

They would give him a chance.

And really…that was all she could ask for.

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After that first meeting, John Winchester never saw her parents again.

That was just fine for her.

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She was 18.

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He was fifteen years older than her and had nightmares that ended with him screaming himself awake beside her and bruises on her arms, her _thighs_.

God did he turn her _on_.

She took it all in stride, loving the way he pounded into her after he woke, his penis hard from the latent adrenaline pumping through his blood from the nightmares. His thighs were hot and thick on her ass as he drove into her, his mouth sucking her nipple, pushing her so hard into the mattress that her chest felt like it would be crushed under his suffocating presence.

And she loved every aching moment of it. The pushing, the pulling, the stretching, the bruises, the nightmares, the guns, all of it.

With John, what did it matter that she was loosing some of her tone, that she was softening more into a woman than an athletic girl?

She didn't see her parent's anymore after he proposed to her. She loved him more than life itself and would do anything for him, even give up the only thing she had ever wanted, ever loved before him.

Oh yes, screaming his name so loud, pulling his short hair hard, letting him ride her like a bitch in heat.

It was official.

Mary loved John Winchester.

Every single fucking bit of him.

…

Maybe she'd even grow her hair out for the bastard too.

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They got married and when he was asleep on the first night, Mary having thoroughly tiring him out, Mary celebrated in her own way by prying up the all of the tiles around all of the John's doorways and pouring a thick line of salt before gluing them back down. She even took a knife to carve a groove in the windowsills before pouring salt evenly down the cracks.

Crawling back into bed with him, Mary didn't let herself cry as she thought about her mother teaching her how to do what she did.

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Going out to check on her parents had been a horrible idea.

But God, how could she _not_ tell them she was pregnant?

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her shoes covered in blood, she realized just how soft she had gotten.

And so she got determined.

She would toughen up again and she would fry the ass of the demon who slaughtered her parents.

She dragged her slaughtered parents together and used the sulfur she found on the windowsills to light the inferno that took her home completely from her once again.

And she was happy.

Really she was.

And when she caught and kicked the ass of the yellow-eyed motherfucker that had killed her parents she finally slept in peace.

And little Dean, the name of the fetus growing inside her, agreed, even as he kicked her bladder really, _really_ hard.

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Mary was scared shitless of the prospect of being a mother. She wasn't sure she could love someone that much.

She didn't cry; no, that wasn't her way. But she paced, she cleaned John's old guns, she constantly watched the weather.

It was like a small comfort, being able to see the disasters around her and know that she was measurably safe at home with her husband.

She touched her blooming stomach and thought about how to tell John that she couldn't have such rough sex with him anymore.

Pouting, she got up to go pee _again_ and thought about an…_alternative_ for her and her hubby's predicament.

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Licking her lips appreciating she let the dull head of his penis press into the side of her face.

Rubbing against it like a cat she listened to him hiss and moan when she engulfed him in her mouth. Her slowly growing stomach almost brushed the bed from where she was on her knees and she could feel him try not to shove _hard_ into her willing mouth as she took him down her throat.

Oh yes, they could _so_ make this work.

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Dean looked so much like her mother that Mary _cried_ when she saw him. God, she was such a damn pansy.

John looked at her, her with her sweaty long blond hair and pale face, so concerned that she cried harder.

But she smiled as she told John what the baby's name was.

And Dean totally agreed.

The spit bubble proved it.

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She loved Dean enough that she worried she would smother him in her affections.

She got so _careful_, so _worried_ about protecting her baby and her husband that she lost weight.

John noticed.

She just smiled and hid another knife under the mattress as she pulled her Dean closer and let John hold her.

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Sam was unexpected.

Hell, pregnancy was unexpected.

But hey, she didn't do birth control and John didn't use a condom so…

And Jesus, what the fuck was with the looking like her father thing?

Whatever, the name had stuck when she caught the tiny baby boy's eyes.

Dean, his father's strong jaw leading the way toddled into the room soon after Sammy had escaped captivity.

John, his dark eyes frantic, ran in soon after.

She laughed and held both of her boys in her arms, happy to be alive.

Happy to love them like she did.

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She wasn't really surprised that John didn't put up a fight about their sons names.

God, both of them after her parents.

He never said a word, no, not her _normal_ husband. But he looked down gravely at their sons and she could see it in his eyes; he would protect them to the ends of the earth.

He didn't even know that her parents were dead anyway, she told herself as she changed Sam, playing with his toes and smiling while she watched Dean in his highchair with one eye.

Yes, her babies looked like her parents, especially around the eyes.

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How the _fuck_ had he gotten in?

What had gone **wrong**?

She checked the salt lines every fucking _week_ and he still got _in_?

She hissed, pacing by a large fountain in what she was guessing was purgatory.

She hurt so damned bad that she thought she was dying all over again.

And so she got herself _dusted_ by the demon of who she had kicked the ass of two times. Two _fucking_ times.

And now her _babies_ had no _mother_, her _John_ had no _Mary_, and _God_ had succeeded in successfully **assfucking** Mary Winchester once more.


End file.
